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“Thanks for the great season…”

I suppose that statement is a way for Saints fans to hide and deal with their disappointment and hurt.

But they’ve been saying it for the past 4 years.

I’m glad I’m not experiencing all those feelings this morning after yet another heartbreaking end to a season last night.  Been there, done that. Every year for the past 3 years before this. I sat on the floor in a corner of the Deutsches Haus bawling my eyes out, angrily ripping off all my Saints paraphernalia one of those years. I  cried all the way home and continued to cry as I went to bed. The next day at work, I was unapproachable. I was in mourning.

Three years in a row, I experienced that sorrow that a passionate sports fan can feel. 

2017 – the “Minneapolis Miracle”  A missed tackle by our guy, 10 seconds left when the play started, all he had to do was tackle the Vikings guy, but he didn’t.  We would have won if he had just tackled him.  Game over.  I had been hiding my face in a corner of the room when the play started, whispering  to myself “Please, please!” the whole time.  Then I turned to look in the last seconds. Utter heartbreak. I almost literally fell to the floor in that corner I had been standing in. I was done.  Off came the Saints necklaces and beads, the rubber bracelets that say “Bless You Boys” and “Get Crunk”.  Nobody could talk to me. I was done.

2018 – the Rams in the Dome for the NFC Championship game:  the infamous “NOLA No Call” pass interference on the Saints that was blatantly ignored by the refs, one of which was standing RIGHT THERE. That’s all I kept saying. From up in our perch in the terrace section of the Superdome, even from all the way up there, we saw it. “He was standing RIGHT…THERE!”  We were dumbfounded.

One thing I can say about the No Call – New Orleans and Saints fans showed their true spirit and how we handle adversity and loss. On Super Bowl Sunday (or what I referred to as “Stupid Bowl Sunday”) we went to a block party Uptown and wrote down our feelings about what had happened and placed them in a wooden coffin that someone had made and put on display. We then joined hundreds of other Saints fans in a second line that started in the French Quarter and wound its way to Canal Street and back again. Chants of “We got robbed” and vocal support of our team in music and song filled the air. We were exorcising demons. It was truly therapeutic.

2019 – Vikings in the Dome, our first playoff game, the wild card game.  We were salivating for revenge from two years prior. We go into overtime – and another pass interference is not called by the refs.  How much more of this are we supposed to take?  It’s not fair. I can’t do this anymore. Sitting in my seat in the Dome, tears flowing, anger seething. I just can’t do this anymore.

2020 was a strange year, to say the least, in so many ways. There was major political and social upheaval. Sports teams collectively, it seemed, were voicing their frustrations about the events that were happening, the things that seemed to keep occurring over and over again.

During the summer months, it seemed like everything was not only coming to a boil, but vigorously percolating, and threatening to blow the top off the pot.

It was at this point that things changed irrevocably for me.

At their first practice in preparation for the coming season – of which we were not going to be a part of due to coronavirus restrictions with regard to tailgating and inside the Dome – the Saints players decided to take “action”.  They weren’t the only team doing so.  Along with kneeling during the National Anthem and wearing shirts voicing their opinions, they decided to put names on their helmets of people who had been killed by police under questionable circumstances.

When I saw the name of the person that Drew Brees decided to wear on his helmet, it disturbed me to my core.

I won’t get into the details, but it affected me so much that my feelings for the man I had held up since 2006 were forever altered.

Am I perfect?  Not by any stretch of the imagination. Is Drew Brees perfect? You know – I really used to think he was.  I defended him up, down, and sideways every time anyone tried to discredit him. You can’t say anything bad about Drew Brees.  Because there is nothing. There’s not one bad thing you can find on him.

Is that mostly true? Yeah, I suppose it still is. But this was a man who always stood up for what he believed in, no matter what. Or so I thought.

Other things happened over the summer of 2020 in which I felt that Drew was going against his convictions. Were there extenuating circumstances in some cases? Yes, I think there were. But I have always believed that a person should stand up for what they believe in, never buckle, never knuckle under. No matter what.

Had I set too much store in this man?  Placed him on a pedestal, never to pull him down?  And yet, who the hell was I to be judge, jury, and executioner on this man? Or anyone else?  Who the hell do I think I am?

But I was just simply disillusioned by the things I was seeing and hearing. Drew backpedaled on his assertion that nobody should ever kneel for the National Anthem. And he did so because he was getting backlash from his own teammates. That was so wrong on their part. But, Drew – why didn’t you stick to your guns?

Who the hell am I to judge Drew Brees and think I’m better than him, or anyone else? Have I ever gone against my convictions? You know what? I’m not perfect. But no – I don’t believe I have.

I was just disappointed in the man I had admired for so many years, not just as a football player, but more importantly as a human being. When he decided to put the name of a rapist on his helmet, I was stunned.

In good conscience, I could not support such actions. By Drew or the rest of the team. Believe what you want. I just don’t think the football field is the place to bring that in. It brings a lot of tension and angst to something that’s supposed to be fun.

Drew Brees is still an exceptional person. And he is an outstanding football player. I always thought he never received the recognition he deserved. He was constantly being overlooked. The records he has broken in his professional career, many of which I was lucky enough to witness in person, are going to place him on top in the NFL Hall of Fame.

As a human being, Drew has done more for this city than its elected officials. He came here to join the Saints during a pivotal time in our city’s history. 2006, and New Orleans was still in a state of destruction and despair. Drew and his wife were driven around by Sean Payton to witness the devastation caused by the Federal levee breaches. Who in their right mind would consciously choose to make their new home in this place?

Drew Brees did.

I will never forget everything he did for the city of New Orleans. No one will. Can I forgive him for what I suppose could be a momentary lapse of reason in a sea of good deeds? Yes, but again – who the hell am I to be so self-righteous? We all make mistakes.

But my view of professional sports was changed by the events of the summer of 2020. And my view of our quarterback was questionable. He was instrumental in bringing the Saints their first Super Bowl. It was a glorious time. I am so blessed to have been a part of that. Because it wasn’t just about football. It was about soul. And spirit. And unity.

Football for me now is about division. And that’s not how it’s supposed to be. It’s supposed to be fun. It’s supposed to be an escape from all that other stuff that we get shoved down our throats on a daily basis it seems all the time now.

From the beginning of this season, all I kept thinking and saying was, “I hope Drew and the Saints get what they are looking for.” Drew is 42 years old. He’s older than Brett Favre was back in 2010 when Drew played against him in the NFC Championship game that brought us to the Super Bowl. The game in which I kept yelling at Favre, “It’s football, and you’re the quarterback, old man!”

And now, last night was most likely Drew’s final ever game in the Mercedes Benz Superdome. Should a quarterback of such prolific talent have won another Super Bowl in the past 4 years? Probably. He should have gotten the chance for another ring. When he ran off the field last night after losing the game, he looked up at the few fans who had been allowed in the Dome, he waved and blew kisses. And then, as he ran into the tunnel exiting the field, he turned around and looked behind him, for what everyone is saying was probably the very last time. Drew will be retiring.

If the past year had been different, if the season had been different, we would have been in the Dome, and I probably would have been devastated and in tears again like I was the previous 3 years.

But it wasn’t, and I wasn’t, and all season long, I really didn’t watch the games. And when I did, I really wasn’t paying attention. I wasn’t emotional and invested like before.

And last night, I would have been screaming and yelling til I couldn’t scream anymore, and getting angry and frustrated. And I would have cried my eyes out again. For us. For Drew. For the team.

I’m sorry they didn’t get what they set out to achieve. I’m sorry they didn’t get what they wanted. I’m sorry that what is pretty much undoubtedly Drew’s final season ended the way it did for him.

But I’m not sorry that I’m not more emotional about it all. If I learned anything from the past year, it’s that when it really comes down to it, it is JUST a football game. And I have other things that could potentially be more devastating. More important things that could take my feelings and emotions and effort when I have nothing left to give.

I’ve missed being in our section in the Dome. I’ve missed our tailgates and seeing all of our wonderful friends there. I don’t know if we will be back in our seats again any time soon. But if and when we are, I can say for certain that it will definitely never be like it was. I will attend a football game for hopefully just the fun, and not all the other stuff. And the camaraderie.

And that doesn’t make me, or my husband for that matter, “fairweather fans”. We are and have been anything but. What we’ve experienced up until this point and what we’ve chosen to continue to endure is proof of that.

And regardless of what happens in the future, we will always have Super Bowl 44 and the glory days of that time. That they can never take away from us.

Thanks for everything you did, Drew. I will hold those past days in a special place in my heart forever and will always smile when I think of them. I wish you peace and discernment and clarity in all the things that are important to you.

A very wise woman said those words to me the other night. She said it’s the one thing that she has always told her two granddaughters.

Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.

It’s easy to lay down and die, so to speak. Easy to be so tired that you just throw up your hands and say, that’s it – I can’t do this anymore.

It’s far more difficult to keep going when you feel like you can’t. Much harder to say, you know what – I may be judged and disliked and threatened and hurt and stunned by the hypocrisy and evil in this world, but I’m not shutting up. I’m not stopping. I will continue to speak the truth.

Another person gave me this advice this week: You are not a hypocrite if you change your mind.

I cannot tolerate hypocrites. I don’t want to be one. I don’t believe I am. And yet, I’m hesitating to do something, go back on something I said, because I will be perceived as one by some people. I really just had a change of heart. But they won’t see it that way.

I have never been one to give a damn what others think of me. When I was a teenager, peer pressure never affected me. I thought what I wanted, wore the clothes that I wanted, did what I wanted. And it didn’t bother me if people looked at me like I was crazy for not going along with the crowd.

Sometimes, of course, it DOES matter what people think of me. The people I love, the ones that mean the most to me. I don’t want to make them think any less of me. Or, worse yet, maybe stop loving me or caring about me.

And yet, those people are exactly the ones, because they love me and care about me so much, who wouldn’t think any less of me just because we disagree or because I changed my mind about something.

I’ve never really been one to hold my tongue either, especially when I am extremely passionate about something. “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all” – isn’t that something all our mothers always told us? I am aware and do have the discretion to know when something should be said and when I should probably keep quiet.

Most of the time…

But I’m not the kind of person who doesn’t adhere to her convictions when it really comes down to it. “Better be careful what you say” is not going to work with me. On the contrary – it’s going to make me want to shoot my mouth off even more. If you don’t like what I’m saying, too freaking bad.

If I’ve held my tongue, it’s because I know it’s not worth it. And because it’s fighting a losing battle. And I am battle weary.

So I say, I’m done – I’m not doing this anymore. I can’t do this anymore. But that doesn’t mean you’ve won. Or that you’ve succeeded in shutting me up. But am I, in effect, censoring myself when I respond that way?

I’ve been feeling over the last couple of days like maybe I am. So, if I turn around and go back to what I said I was going to stop doing – does that make me a hypocrite? Or did I just change my mind because I realize I have a right to have a voice?

We all have a right to have a voice. That’s what makes this America. What becomes hypocritical is when certain people tell other certain people that they are not allowed to have a voice, but the very ones saying that claim that theirs are the only ones that matter.

Do people in power or of influence have a responsibility to be careful and watch how they say things because some people who follow them or admire them will take it too much to heart? Maybe take it the wrong way and twist it? Yes – we all mess up with our words from time to time. Some more than others. But we all also each have a responsibility to not take what we hear and decide that gives us the right to harm others.

We are all responsible for our own actions. We have been given freedom of choice, discretion, and the ability to decide that just because something was said and perhaps misinterpreted by us, that doesn’t give us the right to harm others or destroy things.

Are there people out there who really don’t have that discretion or critical thinking and can’t stop themselves from doing wrong? Yes. Does that make it even more of a responsibility by others to be “careful what they say”? Yeah, probably. But I believe we have become a country of victims. Let’s all blame somebody else for actions we chose to take or that were taken by others. It cracks me up when I hear someone say “I take full responsibility.” Well, of course you do! You’re the one who did it!!

So I’ve decided to remove myself from a certain situation really because I can’t deal with the hypocrisy anymore. And because I don’t like some of the things I am seeing and reading. This has all been the result of many recent events. If things had gone in the direction that I would have preferred, would I have made a different decision?

Absolutely. I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t have.

Would I have removed myself so readily and dramatically? Was I just trying to “make a scene or get attention”? If things had turned out differently, I wouldn’t have done it at all. I’m not gonna lie.

But I did what I did and said what I said because I felt like – what’s the point? Things I’m seeing are just making me sick and angry, and I don’t want to deal with what people are going to say when they don’t agree with me because I decided to make my voice heard.

I censored myself. And none of us need to be doing that to ourselves right now. It’s being done for us.

But – not to ALL of us. And that’s what the problem is. And if you don’t see that as a problem, then you are part of the problem. Every freedom-loving American should be incredibly concerned by what is taking place right now.

And no – I ain’t paranoid. And I ain’t stupid either.

So – all of that now being said – if you see me back out there, hopefully you’ll realize that I just changed my mind and you won’t consider me a hypocrite. But honestly – I really don’t care. I am not in control of what anyone else thinks. But I am still in control of my own thoughts and my own voice. “Give me liberty or give me death” – I will fight to my grave for the right to have my voice and speak the truth.

I don’t understand.

I prayed so hard.

We watched an episode of Young Sheldon last night in which his twin sister Missy was using prayer as a way to get things from God. Her mother had given her the cross she wore as a little girl, and Missy started praying. Mostly she was praying for God to help her hit the ball when she was up at bat for her baseball team. When she finally hit the ball, after intense prayers of “please let me hit the ball” – while wearing her mother’s cross – she started calling it her “lucky cross”.

Her mother was outraged and very disappointed. That’s not how God works, she said. He doesn’t perform magic tricks.

Is that what I’ve been thinking and feeling?

I don’t understand why, after fervently praying to God for Trump to stay in the White House for the next 4 years that it didn’t happen. It’s what’s best for the country. Things are going to get very bad if it doesn’t happen.

Why would God let this happen?

Have I been using prayer to try and get what I want?

I honestly don’t think so. I’ve been praying for the truth to prevail and justice to be done. The truth was out there, plain as day. It was presented to anyone who would listen. People committed fraud and there was blatant wrongdoing. It was all out there for everyone to see.

And yet – it still didn’t happen. Why?

I woke up in the middle of the night and had a really hard time falling back asleep. Eventually I did, but while I was awake, this is what I was saying, out loud, to God.

I should not set store on any one man. But with Trump still in the White House, I felt and believed that things were going to be okay. We were going to get through this pandemic. We were going to survive. There was hope, as long as there was someone defending us and fighting for us.

With the way it turned out, I have lost all hope. It’s gone. I don’t have it anymore. I can feel it in my bones.

My hope is supposed to be in Jesus Christ. I remember when Obama was elected, and there was this poster made of him. A caricature of sorts, and it had the word “hope” at the bottom. I remember laughing when I saw it, thinking “I don’t get my hope from a mere mortal, from any one man.”

I get my hope from the Lord.

So – why is now any different?

Well, it’s really not. I guess I was putting my hope in a man. But I felt like I was putting it there because he was fighting for us, as an elected official should. I don’t believe for one second that the individual who has been illegitimately declared president will ever do that for us. He’s been in office for almost HALF A CENTURY. In all that time, he has never once advocated for the people. He claims he has. But that’s a lie.

So, to put my hope in an elected official who for the past 4 years has been constantly working for the people – I guess that’s not such an unusual thing.

What is wrong of me is to think that God let me down. That He purposely didn’t answer my prayers. I know in my heart that’s not true.

It’s just…so…hard…

God’s answers to prayers are yes, no, and not yet. He always has a plan. Always.

What that plan is, for this country, I don’t know. Nobody does. We’re just supposed to trust and believe.

Would God put an entire country through a difficult time merely because of the actions of a few? He might. This country for many, many years now has turned away from God. We’ve pushed Him out of our daily lives in SO many ways. He’s not a vengeful God. But He does not force himself upon us. He wants us to ask Him in.

Would God allow innocent people to suffer because of the actions of a few? It happens all the time, unfortunately. But it’s not Him doing it on purpose to punish everyone. He wants us to turn from our sinful ways. He wants us to willingly come to Him. And ask His forgiveness.

I’m still struggling with my feelings about what has happened. I will continue to simply take one day at a time and live my life to the best of my ability. And pray for myself and my family to continue to be healthy and happy, so that we can do what we need to do. Fight the good fight. Trust God. And continue to rely on Him.

I’ve shared the link to this blog post on my Facebook page so that everyone can know that I have commented on the events of yesterday in Washington D.C. as well as the news of this morning.

Please be aware, before you go any further:  I am not holding anything back. I may lose friends and relatives over this – if they choose to read what I’ve written, don’t agree, and decide that they can no longer engage me on any level.

That is your choice if you go down that road. I will continue to love my family and friends no matter how far apart we are in our beliefs. I won’t discuss them, and may choose not to see the things that I don’t agree with, but I will never stop loving you and wanting you to be a part of my life. I’m not assuming that any of you are going to walk away from me, because I believe you feel the same way I do. We love each other, and our relationships withstand any differences, even if I feel like I can’t discuss them with some of you. But if you choose to walk away, that’s your decision.

Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way…

When I first saw people with Trump flags and hats walking into the rotunda of the Capitol yesterday, my first reaction was utter glee, to be quite honest. I thought to myself, “YES!  We the people have had quite enough!  That’s OUR building! That’s OUR Capitol! You stole an election, and we are taking our country back!”

Almost instantaneously, the hypocritical comments began, by the very media I was watching (by the way, C-Span, you’re no better than the rest of them) and by people on Facebook (at least those that I could see). Hypocrisy abounded, because after the last year, particularly the summer months – when the country was literally on fire, businesses were being looted and destroyed, and true violence reigned – ANYONE who was “shocked and dismayed” by what they were seeing today – you expected us to accept what was going on when it was about the things that YOU were fighting for, the frustration YOU felt. But now – you are suddenly appalled?

I admit, too, that when I saw members of Congress reacting, I thought “Well now…are you finally sensing the frustration? Do you finally realize that ‘We the People’ are pissed? Do you finally realize that YOU work for US?”

As the day wore on, it became clear that something very devious was afoot. Go ahead – get it out of your system. Call me a conspiracy theorist. Or a Trumper. Or a sore loser. Whatever makes you feel better. It became painfully obvious that we were being set up. Correct. Obvious that people on the other side were infiltrating those who were there peacefully and trying to make us look bad.

And they succeeded.

Okay – maybe there were a few bad apples in the barrel. I can believe that. But I refuse to believe that the majority of the very people who were upset by the actions of Antifa and BLM this past summer would employ the same tactics.

That’s not who we are.

It is also becoming increasingly obvious that the assault on the Capitol yesterday was planned and orchestrated for the very purposes it ultimately achieved: intimidation of some members of Congress so that they would change their decisions. If you can’t or don’t see that, you are in serious denial.

There was a Constitutional process in motion yesterday that was interrupted by what happened at the Capitol. That should have never happened. I had hoped that it would continue to its fullest extent. I had hoped that the truth would prevail. Truth – and guts.

There is proof, indisputable evidence, that those who infiltrated the Trump supporters today were those who committed the violence and destruction at the Capitol. It’s already out there. And if you can’t or refuse to see it, you are truly a lost sheep.

I had such high hopes and prayed so hard every day that the process that took place yesterday would carry on and that truth would prevail. The truth did not prevail. Those of you who are happy with the results will say it did prevail. But this isn’t about “your guy” versus “our guy”. This was about the integrity of this election and all future elections to come. There is blatant evidence that election fraud and misconduct took place. And in the end, the people we elected to Congress showed their true colors. All of them. The truth did not matter. The truth did not prevail. And we should ALL be very concerned about that.

I can tell you with the utmost certainty that the next four years are going to be brutal. The country that I love may never be the same. For those of you who couldn’t or still won’t get past your undeniable pure unadulterated hatred of Donald Trump, who couldn’t look at the accomplishments, the promises he made and kept, the fact that he was the only one in Washington who was actually working for the people – I hope you get exactly what you want. But be careful what you ask for. You just might get it. And you know what? I don’t wanna hear one ounce of bitching.

Oh, we won’t be bitching, I can hear you saying – it’s a new day! We finally got rid of “bad orange man”! I hope this pathetic candidate you allegedly elected will do everything you expect him to do. I have absolutely NO hate or animosity towards Joe Biden as there has been for Trump for the past four years. But good luck with him as leader of this country. He probably won’t be there for very long, and the alternative is even a worse prospect.

For four years I have been listening to things like “not my president”. Those words were uttered for one reason and one reason only: hatred. Well, it’s time for me to use that phrase. Only I will be uttering it due to the fact that the person who will be inaugurated on January 20th is illegitimate.

Yep – that’s right. You got it. ILLEGITIMATE.

I will NEVER vote again. Say what you will about that. I don’t care. My faith and trust in our system has been destroyed. And no, it’s not because “my guy” lost. It’s because of blatant disregard for painfully obvious evidence that an election – any election – was stolen. Yes – STOLEN.

I love my country. I believed in my country. I don’t have hate for anyone. I see the truth. I see facts. I see proof in people doing what they say they are going to do. Two things I cannot and will not tolerate: liars and hypocrites. The world abounds with them. It’s a fractured feeling for someone who just wants everything to be right and true.

I would be lying if I said that I am not devastated today. Again, not because I’m a sore loser. But because integrity and truth and justice has been lost. I don’t know what the future holds. What I do know is that God is still ultimately in control. He’s never been out of control. I have to try and believe that in some way I can’t or don’t understand that this is part of His plan. I can’t hang on to much right now, but I can hold fast to my trust and faith in Jesus Christ.

One day at a time. This too shall pass. My fear is that people like me and my family are going to be the hardest hit by the policies that are getting ready to come to pass. Time will tell. I have recited the Serenity prayer several times since last night and will continue to do so. And pray for this country, as I have been doing all along. I cannot pray for any of our leaders anymore because, honestly, I think it is fruitless. I will instead ask God to have His hand over this country and protect us from evil, if He sees fit. But this may be part of His plan. Sometimes evil must win for a little while in order for goodness and truth to ultimately triumph. May God bless us all. And may God hopefully bless America.

A year ago tonight, the world was getting ready for a brand new year and hoping for all the usual stuff we hope for every year.

Little did we know what was coming.

A lot of thoughts come to my mind when I suddenly wake up in the middle of the night. Recently one of those thoughts was, “We should have known. We all should have known.”

What I’m talking about now is New Orleans specific. When those two people got run over by Mardi Gras floats, we should have known. I mean absolutely no disrespect to those unfortunate individuals. But I thought, “We should have known.” It was like a portent of things to come.

I had a great birthday this year. I was hoping for an even better 60th birthday celebration in 2021. Maybe that can and will still happen. Unfortunately, I’m not counting on that or anything else.

I’m not making any New Year’s resolutions. I’m not claiming 2021 as “my year”. So the clock is going to strike midnight tonight, and nothing is going to magically change.

It never does.

Yes, every new year is the start of something new, a chance to begin again. Every single day is that. I am glad to say goodbye to the number 2020, and the year. See ya. Adios Muchacha. Get the fuck out of here. So long, farewell, auf wiedersen, GOODBYE. And don’t…come…back.

But when that clock strikes midnight, wherever you are – guess what? All the terrible things that happened in 2020 are still going to be a reality. All the nastiness that took place will most likely continue on. All the restrictions will probably still be there. For a very long time to come, I fear. And I’m tired.

I’m just…tired…

But I am continuing to take just one day at a time. And hold on to the only thing any of us have got.

HOPE.

Some of us have handled this past year better than others. I just want NORMAL. And normal to me is being able to walk out my front door and not have to worry about whether I have a mask in my pocket or purse. I want to be able to walk into any establishment I want without a mask on. Sorry, but I am sick to death of the mask wearing. Call me what you want, I don’t care. I want to be able to sit at the bar again and have a drink. I want to be able to hug people. I want to see my mother.

Those are my wishes for the new year. That is what I want.

I’m not saying Happy New Year. I refuse to say it. I’m saying Happy New Day. Because that’s all it is. Just another day. One at a time. One step at a time. One foot in front of the other.

Go ahead. Say something clever. Say something like “stop whining”. About wearing a mask. About social distancing. About everything. Go ahead. Call it what you want. I’m done.

I thankfully did not lose a loved one this past year due to covid. I did lose a job. By nothing but the grace and mercy of God are my family and I surviving. We have everything we need. Each other. And our health.

Losing a loved one is by no stretch of the imagination the same as losing a job. We are all in the same storm, but we are not all in the same boat.

EVERYBODY’S hurting.

Hope is what I’m holding on to. I want normal back. If you’ve read any part of this blog in recent months, you’ve seen this theme repeated. This is my venting place. My safe place. Where I can say whatever I want. Where I can get things out of my system, and then go back to the day to day.

Even though I’m venting, I really AM trying to be positive. I’m trying to hold on to the hope that things ARE going to get better, little by little. This too shall pass, is what my mother always says. And speaking of my mother, a very Happy 88th Birthday to her today! She’s pissed too – but she’s a survivor.

I can learn a lot from her…

Happy New Day! We never have to say 2020 ever again. And isn’t that just one of the best things ever?

Two nights ago, the planets Jupiter and Saturn aligned for the first time since the 13th century. Regardless of how it appeared to you based on where you are located in the world, it was a unique experience to behold.  Some people, like myself and my family, were able to see what looked like simply a very bright star in the southwest sky.  Others, such as people in Europe and in Africa, witnessed what looked exactly like the star that led the wise men to a manger over 2,000 years ago…

It might not have looked like all the pictures we’ve seen of the Star of Bethlehem (indeed, some were referring to it as the Christmas star) but just that we were able to witness an event that will probably never happen again in our lifetime was impressive enough. The fact that this year of 2020 – the likes of which we’ve also never experienced before – ended with a sight in the sky that also happened when the savior of the world was born says, to me, a lot about where we’ve been and where we are headed.

God is the only one in control, and this has been true since day one of the pandemic. Scientists, doctors, politicians, regular everyday people – they all think they know what is going on, and they all claim to have all the answers and have the right to tell the rest of us what to do and how to act. Some people have become downright nasty – pompous and all-knowing, judgemental and self-righteous – and it’s only gotten worse as the lockdowns and social distancing and mask wearing has gone on. People have actually been verbally abused and, in some extreme cases, physically attacked because they have the audacity to question and challenge what is going on around them. People are being told that they don’t care about their fellow human beings and that they are “literally killing” others if they don’t do what they are being told by all the so-called “experts”.

I do not doubt or question anyone’s education or training or degree when it comes to science and medicine.  But I do know that nothing is perfect. And NOTHING is inherently safe. NOTHING. Things go wrong. People, even those trained in specific jobs, make mistakes. They’re all doing the very best they can with what they’ve been given. And what they’ve been given comes from God.

God has blessed the scientific profession with talented people who have developed the first coronavirus vaccines.  It is an amazing accomplishment to have a vaccine so quickly, and before the end of this awful year.  However, some people I believe are viewing the vaccine as the “magic bullet” – the “miracle pill” – that is suddenly going to fix everything. So we can immediately go on cruises and to concerts again.  I would love to believe that. But it’s just not sensible or logical.  We have to see how things play out. And until they do, unfortunately, I believe we will continue to be held hostage and controlled by our governments.

And that, right there, is the crux of the situation. It has been since day one.

I believe I have said it before, but I will say it again:  I do not and never have for one moment doubted that the virus is real. I know how it can affect certain people. I have a close relative who was on a ventilator for 8 weeks. He’s been home for a few months now, thank God, and is starting to recover from all he’s been through. Some things are still a struggle. The sister of a good friend of mine lost her life, and she was a healthcare worker. You would think that if anybody would be completely safe, it would be someone like her. After all, a hospital has to be the cleanest, most sanitized place in the world, right? But I do not agree and haven’t since this whole thing started that lockdowns are the answer. If they were, why is the city of London being forced into another one right now?  Pray tell – didn’t the first one work??

Because “the virus is mutating” they will say – “there’s a new strain.”

So are we, the people of the world, supposed to stay locked down forever?  Wear a mask and social distance until the day you die?

Some of you will say my remarks are extreme. “You could or will die if you don’t do those things – or, worse yet, YOU will be the direct cause of someone else dying!”

I’m sorry – but I don’t buy it. Never have. Never will.

No, I’m not an “expert”. I’m not a doctor. I’m not a scientist. But I’m also a realist and a practical thinker.

There will always be the more vulnerable, the more fragile, the ones who are more at risk. How arrogant are we as mere humans to think that we can beat Mother Nature? That we can stomp out a virus?  You know what – maybe we can. But if we do, it’s because God ordained it. He blessed the doctors and scientists with their talent and knowledge. He’s in charge. Not you. Not me. Not anyone else.

“Two weeks to flatten the curve.”  This is what we were told 9 months ago. NINE…MONTHS…AGO!  It’s now Christmas and New Year’s, the end of the year. And yet – here we are. If the lockdowns, masks, and social distancing worked – well then, why isn’t the virus GONE??

Protect the vulnerable. Protect the fragile. Protect the elderly. By all means. But let the rest of us LIVE.

In February, I will turn 60 years old. In February, it will be a year and a half since I have seen my mother. She will be 88 years old on New Year’s Eve and will probably be alone for her birthday. That just breaks my heart. I don’t want to put my mother at risk. But I want to see her more than anything. And I am at the mercy of draconian mandates set up by politicians who work for me. And when those rules get lifted – if they ever do – tell me:  will my mother still be there?

Give the public information. Tell them what they can and/or need to do to protect themselves. And then let them decide for themselves what level of risk they are willing to take. Irresponsible you say? I never have and never will rely on someone else to be responsible for my wellbeing. I can do that for myself.

It’s called freedom. Yeah, that’s right. FREEDOM.

Did God have anything to do with Jupiter and Saturn aligning? Or was it just “science”?  I think He had everything to do with it. And I believe He is giving us a sign, just like He did over 2,000 years ago.

That baby that was born when that other star appeared brought something very simple to the world. HOPE. And that’s what I want to see. And feel. And believe. In hope.  And for things to turn around. And go back to the way they used to be. And should be. If you don’t have faith in that, then YOU stay home.  YOU stay under unending lockdown.  YOU wear a mask. If they work, and you’re wearing one, then the fact that I’m not shouldn’t make a damn bit of difference. YOU social distance. If you don’t want me to breathe on you, then stay the hell away from me. Let…me…live…

“Oh, but it’s just a mask – just do it. Why do you refuse to be a little inconvenienced?  Why don’t you care about your fellow human beings?”

And why do you feel the need to control me and dictate to me what I should do? Take care of yourself in whatever way you see fit. I will do the same for myself.

“But it’s not about control.”  Oh, but – I think it is. If I do not have my right to pursue life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, pray tell – what would you call it?

“But there are still many ways you can have fun, celebrate the holidays, while still social distancing.”  Tell that to my mother who is going to be alone at Christmas and for her birthday on New Year’s Eve. The holidays are a brutal, painful time of year for a lot of people. And this year it’s just magnified. We all might be in the same storm, but we are definitely not all in the same boat.  Not everyone is handling lockdowns as easily as you are. Think about that.

Hope. That’s what I believe that star signified. Hope for clarity and sensible thinking.  Hope for competent leadership. Hope for the virus to yes – go away.  But it probably won’t completely. So – hope for life to return to normal and open up for anyone who is willing to live.

May God bless us all in the new year.

40 years ago today, a memorial was held in Central Park in Manhattan for John Lennon, who had been assassinated the previous Monday night.

I was there. I was 19 years old. The following is what I wrote that day to remember the event…

Someone once wrote with regard to the Beatles: “I was there in the beginning. And in the middle. I don’t want to be there at the end.”

I was only 3 years old in the beginning, when the Beatles first came to this country. I was there in the middle, but I don’t remember too much of it. Beatlemania didn’t hit me until later.

Today, part of the end brought thousands of people to the Central Park bandshell on 72nd Street, only a short walk from where John Lennon lived and died.

For me, it was as if something was drawing me there. At first I thought it was only curiosity; but the more I thought about it, it wasn’t. I had to be there to say goodbye to John.

I arrived at the bandshell shortly after 1:30pm with Katie, a girl from London who lives in my building. She felt she had to be there too, but at the same time wished she could have been back in her native England for the memorial. After walking around and listening to the recorded John Lennon/Beatles music and trying to find a good place to stand, Katie and I finally joined the thousands of others who were there to pay their last respects to John.

Shortly before 2:00pm, a voice came over the loudspeaker. The voice told us to get ready for the 10 minutes of silence that was coming up. “Get comfortable” it said. “Please turn off all radios. Let’s have absolute silence.” And then, from exactly 2:00 until 2:10, the thousands stood silently for John. I never stood so still. It seemed longer than 10 minutes, but somehow it didn’t matter.

As I stood there looking around me, it dawned on me that all these people were here for a purpose. They had all come to pay tribute to one man. I think John would have been pleased and perhaps a bit stunned to know that so many loved him.

Behind me, a group of 4 were sitting on the ground with their arms around each other and their heads bowed. I felt the tears welling up in my eyes, and I let them fall. There wasn’t a sound. Not one sound, except the helicopters hovering above us and an occasional sniffle, or the rustle of someone’s jacket as they moved an arm to brush aside a tear. I also noticed that during the 10 minutes, the sun stayed behind a gray cloud and didn’t reappear until after it was over.

After the 10-minute vigil, the crowds roared their approval. The music flowed through the loudspeakers again. They played John’s song Imagine. Everyone around me was singing. I sang too, and once more I cried.

Afterwards, we just walked around and tried to make our way through the crowds to the bandshell, where there was a picture of John on an easel with flowers around him. Behind his picture hung a Christmas wreath, a symbol of this season that’s supposed to be a merry one, but somehow doesn’t seem so merry anymore.

I’m glad I was there today. It was almost like a concert. It’s just too bad that the reason we were all there was such a sad one.

Thank you, John, wherever you are for touching our lives in such a special way. We’re gonna miss you. And we’ll never forget you.

When my mother Rosie came to this country in 1946, she was an almost 14 year old girl who had left a tiny village in Hungary to begin a new life with her parents and younger brother in the huge, bustling city of New York.  Talk about culture shock.  She’s told me many times that for awhile after she arrived, she was so miserable and homesick for her little town that she felt like “jumping into the East River”.  Not that she ever would have really done it, but what “saved” her – or rather, who – was another girl of the same age, also named Rosie.

The other Rosie who became my mother’s best friend and confidant was Rosie Wagner – and she also eventually became my baptismal godmother.  She was the daughter of friends of my grandparents, and they all lived in close proximity to one another. So Rosie was one of the first people my mother was introduced to.

My mother couldn’t speak English when she got here, so Rosie slowly helped her learn the language – including slang and curse words – as well as things like what clothes were fashionable, and how to smoke a cigarette.  Thankfully, my mother never hooked on to the habit of cigarette smoking, although my other Rosie did – and unfortunately continued on throughout the remainder of her life with the addiction.  I called my other Rosie “Kuma” which is Croatian for godmother. My Kuma one day discovered a small lump on her neck, which slowly grew so large that she looked like she had the mumps.  It was discovered that it was cancer of the lymph system, and chemotherapy was immediately begun.  And when that didn’t work – radiation.  It was burned into her neck in an attempt to stop the cancer in its tracks right there and then.  But it didn’t work.  The cancer eventually spread throughout her body to all the lymph nodes.  She had lumps under her arms, behind her knees, all over her back…

On December 9, 1978 the cancer won. I lost my beloved Kuma, and my mother lost her best friend.  Rosie Wagner (now Klecar) was just 46 years old – the same age my mother was about to become at the end of that month.  The evil disease took her in less than a year.  In about 8 months – she was gone. 

She left behind a husband and two daughters, one of which was about my age and the other who was a few years younger. I was 17 when she died. I will never forget the sight of my mom at the wake – literally throwing herself on Kuma’s body in the open casket – grabbing on to her, and actually wailing. Shrieking even. Begging her best friend not to leave her. Part of my mother’s life was going with the girl who “saved” it, oh so many years before…

I still have the last birthday card that my godmother gave me for my Sweet 16. Years before that, she had given me a necklace from Avon – a gold-plated chain, which held a pink heart with a keyhole in it at the end, and a little key hanging next to it. It wasn’t anything fancy or expensive, but I loved it. I had held on to it for years after, keeping it in a special spot in my jewelry box, mainly for sentimental reasons. Because it was from my Kuma.

I remember her being a tough but gentle woman, with a somewhat raspy voice, probably due to the chain smoking. She liked her drinks too – mostly beer like my mom, but I seem to recall her enjoying a glass of whiskey now and then. I remember a hearty laugh, and a woman who did not have the easiest life. But she worked hard and played hard, and tried to take everything in stride, with a mischievous grin and a twinkle in her eyes. I don’t think she ever really changed much from the 13 year old girl who helped another 13 year old girl eventually learn to love her new country – and taught her what it was to be a teenager in America.

I’ll always be grateful to Rosie for loving my mother, for embracing her and looking out for her when she came to this country. For welcoming her and offering her friendship, which eventually spanned over three decades. But I will also always have fond and warm memories of the woman who wound up being my godmother – my Kuma. She loved me too.

If you only knew…

If you only knew what it felt like.

If you could only understand the pain and disbelief. One cruel, heartless act that devastated the hearts of a generation.

Unfortunately – you had to be there…

I cannot believe that today is FORTY years that John Lennon was murdered.  I remember it like it was yesterday…

December 8, 1980 was an eventful day for John Lennon. He had a photo shoot in his apartment at the Dakota, as well as a radio interview. The better part of the day was spent in the studio. His first album in 5 years – Double Fantasy – had just been released on November 17th. However, there was still so much material left, he and Yoko were already working on the next album. John had basically gone into hiding since the birth of his son Sean on October 9, 1975 – on what was also John’s 35th birthday.  He became a “house husband” before it was fashionable, staying home with the new baby, changing diapers, doing the feedings, baking bread – while Yoko tended to the business end of their lives. Five years out of the limelight, five years spent with his son Sean – the child that for awhile he and Yoko thought they would never have.

Most of the songs on Double Fantasy came out of this time, when the former Beatle was living a life he basically had never lived before. He was just 22 years old when his son Julian was born in 1963, and it was in the midst of the height of Beatlemania. Crazy, busy times that, unfortunately, didn’t lend themselves well to being a daddy to a little boy. John was in a position now where he could give himself completely to Sean. And he loved every minute of it.

After being removed from the music world for 5 years, he suddenly realized that he and Yoko had some great songs, and maybe it was time to release them on an album. He was very proud of their work.

On the night of December 8, 1980 John and Yoko left the studio and said “See you tomorrow” to the people they had been working with. They were going to grab a bite to eat but then decided to go home first so they could say goodnight to Sean, who was with his nanny.

As they exited the car in front of the entrance to the Dakota, a voice came out of the darkness. “Mr. Lennon” was all it said. And then the early December evening was shattered by the sound of gun shots, and Yoko’s screams.

Someone called the police. The shooter was still standing there. I believe someone may have wrestled him to the ground, after he dropped his weapon. I’m not sure if an ambulance was called or not, but the police officers took it upon themselves to carry John over to their squad car, place his profusely bleeding body in the back seat, and race to the hospital.

John had been shot 4 times at close range. The doctors and nurses feverishly worked on him but could not save him. He was dead almost immediately upon arrival at St. Luke’s Roosevelt Hospital in New York City. He was just 40…years…old…

The word got out to the Monday Night Football broadcast commentators, and they made the decision to make an announcement. Howard Cosell told the world that John Lennon had been shot and killed.

I didn’t find out about it until the next morning, because I had gone to bed. But my father had been watching the game. When I got up for work the next morning, he had left a note on the kitchen table. “Listen to the radio” was all it said. Strange that he would leave me such a note. He knows that I listen to the news every morning before work for weather, etc. I turned it on, coming into the middle of the broadcast. All I heard was “Beatles” and the words “shot” and “died” and “he” – I pounded my fist on the table, yelling at the radio. “Which one? Which one??”

Would it really have mattered – which one…

Think about the singers of your lifetime. Someone who influenced a generation and brought joy to so many with their music. Someone who was an icon. Someone whom you felt like you knew personally because they reached into your heart and soul with their words.

John Lennon was the voice of a generation. Truth be told, several generations. The kids who were lucky enough to see The Beatles live. But also the ones like me, who were too young at that time, but grew up listening to their music and became fans just like everybody else.

His death was devastating. I cannot say it any less than that. Within hours of the awful announcement, people were flocking to the Dakota – to place flowers and memorials, to pay their respects. To weep – for the tragic loss of a generation’s voice.

John Lennon certainly wasn’t perfect. But he was a man who believed in peace and love and making the world a better place. And his music with the Beatles and in his solo career reflected that. He spoke for all of us.

More importantly, he was a husband. And a father. To a little 5-year-old who was never going to see his daddy again. The loss was unbearable. Especially because of the way he was taken from us.

My cousin Chris and I went to the Dakota that Tuesday night. We stood behind barricades across the street with hundreds of other fans, singing along with the Beatles and Lennon music that was playing. Trying to comprehend, come to grips, with the unspeakable tragedy.

The following Sunday, I went to Central Park with my neighbor and friend Katie for the public memorial that Yoko had requested. Thousands of people in one place. For John.

I guess I can’t really explain how the loss of John Lennon affected me and so many other people. We didn’t know him personally, but we felt like we did. Because he spoke to us. And made us sing. And gave us awareness. The closest I guess I can compare it to and maybe make some of you understand is thinking about someone like Kurt Cobain. He was young and the voice of a generation as well. Do you remember what his music made you feel like? Do you remember how his words affected you? Elvis Presley’s death was another huge loss. I’m not comparing deaths, but John Lennon was MURDERED. He literally was just “Starting Over” – with his wife, and his little boy, and his music. It’s a tragedy that I don’t think I will ever get over. 40 years later – FORTY YEARS – and it’s still absolutely one of the worst things that has ever happened.

There are still songs to this day that I cannot listen to without bursting into tears. And yet, I listen to pieces like “Instant Karma” and “Imagine” which have more than stood the test of time, and I realize that John is still a voice, still influencing, all these many, many years later. And his talent was passed on to his sons, Julian and Sean. They, and his own music, are his best legacy.

John Lennon – you are still loved, you are still missed, and it still hurts. But your music continues to live on. And what you stood for. And I think you would be proud of that.

“And I’ve been knocking, but no one answers. And I’ve been knocking most of the day. Oh, and I’ve been calling, oh-oh, hey-hey Johnny – can’t you come out, can’t you come out to play? Johnny, can’t you come out to play, in your empty garden…”

37 years ago today, I lost my daddy.  I was only 22 years old when he died. He was literally here one day and gone the next. Thanksgiving week of 1983 started with my father and I sitting down that Monday evening to watch “The Day After” – an unprecedented TV movie about nuclear holocaust.  Not one for that type of story, my mother went out to go play bingo, I think. The next evening, my father came home from work saying he wasn’t feeling very good. My dad was never one to take over the counter medication. When he had a bad cold, for example, he would drink hot tea with honey, lemon – and whiskey – and go to bed and “sweat it out”.  I remember him sitting down to eat dinner that Tuesday night, but he just wasn’t himself. He went to lay down but got up a little while later, saying he had some strange pains in his abdomen. Thinking it was just a stomach thing, he probably performed some more self-medicating and went back to bed.  Much later in the evening – around 11pm as I recall – my mother and I were both still awake and in the kitchen.  Mom was ironing a few things, as she was known to do late at night, and I was sitting at the kitchen table and we were talking. Suddenly, Dad came out of the shadows in the little hallway that led to the kitchen. He had a somewhat pained look on his face, and he was rubbing his hand around the middle of his body.  “I don’t know what’s going on,” he said. “Now I’m feeling it in my back too.”  Still, he never said he was in such excruciating pain that he felt he needed to go to the hospital.  He might have taken some aspirin or something, and he went back to bed again. My mother may have said before he did, well if you’re still feeling bad in the morning, you should go to the doctor.

The next day – Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving – my father went to work. I don’t know how he was feeling that morning when he woke up, because I didn’t see him – but he actually went to work.  My father was the type of man who was very conscientious when it came to his job. He never missed a day of work, no matter what was going on. Considering how he had been feeling the night before, did it make sense not to go to work? Of course.  But that’s not who my dad was. He may have felt a little bit better and thought, tomorrow is Thanksgiving, there’s a long weekend coming up – I’ll just go in, suck it up, and I’ll have the whole weekend to recover, and I’ll probably be fine. 

I had a half day that Wednesday at my job, and had probably gotten out around 1pm. I went home – my mother wasn’t there – but I found my father laying down in bed. Okay – this is definitely out of the ordinary. Dad would never leave work in the middle of the day. I gently shook him awake and asked him how he was feeling. Not good, he said. I don’t remember where my mother was, and there were no cell phones back then, but I remember somehow getting hold of her. I relayed what was going on, and she said she was coming straight home. When she arrived, she got my father up, made him dress, and told him, “We’re going to the doctor.”

To this day, I know for a fact that if my mother hadn’t done that, my father would have never gone to the doctor.  He was a proud albeit stubborn man who wanted to take care of things himself.

In the late afternoon/early evening of that day before Thanksgiving 1983, I was waiting at home for my parents to get back from the doctor’s office and find out what the diagnosis was. Suddenly, my mother was at the door to our apartment. I opened it, and there she stood – alone. I said, “Where’s Dad?”  Her unbelievable response:  He’s in the hospital.

At the doctor’s office, it was determined that my father was going into shock, and that he could be suffering from any number of things – from gall bladder to something with his kidneys. The doctor immediately called the hospital he was affiliated with – Doctors Hospital, which was just a few blocks down on the street from where we lived – and said to my mother, “I just hope they have a bed for him…”

Mom had come home to get a few personal items for Dad and to collect me. We went to the hospital and entered my father’s room. He was still feeling very uncomfortable – tossing and turning in the bed. They had already done a number of tests to try and determine what was going on inside him. My mother had asked the doctor, “Why aren’t you operating on him?”  The doctor told her that putting him on the operating table not knowing exactly what was going on first would be like playing Russian Roulette. His symptoms weren’t specific to any one obvious problem, and that’s why they were doing the tests. My father was uncomfortable but not in distress. He was sitting up in the bed, joking around here and there, as was his way, and talking to me and my mother. When a nurse came in to give him a needle, I remember turning away because I just can’t watch that. We talked some more with the doctor who told us that he would contact us in the morning, as some of the test results wouldn’t be back until then. We said goodbye to my father – I remember leaning over the bed and kissing him on the cheek – and saying, “See you tomorrow, Dad.”

The next morning, the doctor called and told my mother that they were taking my father in for emergency surgery. It was Thanksgiving Day, so we knew it had to be serious for them to be performing an operation on a holiday.

My father’s appendix had torn – but not burst – hence why he wasn’t experiencing the typical pains associated with it.  This was why they couldn’t immediately determine what was wrong with him and what was causing the uncomfortable feelings in his midsection.  As soon as they determined what was wrong, they got him into surgery.  The doctor had indicated that he would call my mother as soon as they were done.

It was probably around 11am on Thanksgiving Day when we got the follow-up call from the doctor.  I cannot explain to you why my mother and I weren’t at the hospital, waiting there for my dad to get out of surgery.  It seemed like an emergency, and yet also seemed routine, so perhaps we thought there was no need. We could wait at home the same as we could wait there, and the hospital was within walking distance, so it wouldn’t take long for us to get there once we got the call that he was in recovery.  That is the only explanation I have for our decision.  Things didn’t seem frantic.

When the doctor called, he began explaining what they found when they opened up my father. I suppose another curious question would be, why didn’t the doctor tell us to come down there, rather than beginning to relay this all over the phone? In hindsight, I can only imagine that if he had done that, it would have tipped us off to the fact that something was wrong. I guess it really didn’t matter how it took place. What he had to tell us wasn’t going to be easy, no matter what.

They found that the torn appendix had leaked out its contents into my father’s body. The doctor told my mother that they removed the appendix and proceeded to “clean him out” – resulting in peritonitis not occurring. My father made it through the surgery. He had completely come out of the full anesthesia that he had been under. He was in the recovery room, laughing and joking with the nurses, when – as the doctor told my mother over the phone – “something very bad happened inside him.”

As I listened to my mother’s side of the phone conversation, she was finally told something that changed our lives and this day forever. The doctor said that suddenly my father’s blood pressure dropped and his temperature rose. His lungs were no longer expanding. He went into distress, and they “did everything that they could.” I had been standing right next to my mother the whole time, and she suddenly said to the doctor, “Say that again…?” It was both statement and question. Of course, I could not hear the doctor’s voice on the other end of the phone when he told my mother, “He expired. We lost him.”

What happened next, I will never forget. Somehow my mother was able to force the words out of her mouth that her husband – my father – was gone. I don’t recall if she even ended the call with the doctor, if she hung up – or maybe even just dropped the receiver. What I distinctly remember is both of us hysterical, with my mother saying over and over again, “Carol – What am I going to do?” And me turning to my father’s chair at the kitchen table behind me. I fell to my knees in front of it, grasping the seat with my hands, and crying out, “No – No! He can’t be gone!”

The next thing I did I am not proud of. I remember getting up from his chair and walking into my room. There was a crucifix hanging on the wall above the doorway on the other side of the room. I looked up at it and screamed “Damn You!” How could God have taken my daddy away from me?

To this day, I don’t know how my mother and I got dressed, walked out of the house, and down the street in a light rain to the hospital. We met with the surgeon, and the anesthesiologist – who was crying, because they had lost such a young man. I don’t remember how long we were there. What I do remember is being handed a manila envelope before we left, which contained my father’s belongings: his wallet…his reading glasses…his wedding ring…how did we ever make it back home, up the stairs to our apartment, to begin the process of notifying family and friends that “Andy is gone”…

I have no idea who we called first. I do know that I had to find a way to get in touch with my brother, who had been estranged from the family for quite a few years, and at the time, we didn’t have a phone number for him. That summer, he had written me a letter, saying that circumstances of his life had changed, and that he would be getting back in touch with us. When I read that part of the letter out loud to my parents, my father had gently but firmly pounded his fist on the kitchen table and said, “Good – maybe now he’ll come home.”

I wound up calling the New York State Sheriff’s office and, after giving them the info on my brother that I did have, asked them to tell him to call home as soon as possible; but to tell him simply that there was a “family emergency”.

When my brother finally called, I did not want to tell him the terrible news over the phone, but I had no choice. “Dad’s gone,” I said. “Come home – Mom needs you.”

Thanksgiving weekend 1983 remains somewhat of a surreal blur. I remember that very night that my mother’s brother and his wife, along with my grandmother, came over to be with us. The only other persons who were in our apartment that awful night were two priests from our local parish of St. Stephen of Hungary – one of which was Father Emeric, a Hungarian priest who had been with the church for a very long time. He had married my parents in 1954, baptized both my brother and me. I think we might have told the church that it wasn’t necessary to send anyone over to the house that night. But Father Emeric paid no attention to our suggestion. I can still see in my mind’s eye, after answering our doorbell that evening, myself standing on the landing outside our apartment door on the 5th floor, and looking down over the banister through to the floors below – and watching Father Emeric bounding up the 4 flights of stairs – two at a time – with a new younger priest behind him, trying to keep up. It’s what our people do.

The wake took place over two days and nights. My brother finally made it home after not seeing us or the rest of our family for a very long time. He had to borrow a suit from one of our cousins, who also drove him into the city and to the funeral home. I’ve been told that when he walked in and was reunited with our mother and I that there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. The three of us embraced, and as we approached the casket, my brother looked down and said, “I’m sorry, Dad.”

Someone else at the wake that night swore that my father had a slight smile on his face that wasn’t there before my brother arrived. He knew. Andy’s son had finally come home.

There’s so much more that could be said about what happened, the days and the weeks immediately following; what might have been, what could have or should have been. But I will save the rest for another time. My dad was 56 years old when he died. He missed out on SO much. I was angry at God for a very long time after that. Not fair. How could this be? How could He take my father away from me? I have grown spiritually since that Thanksgiving Day so long ago and may not have understood why it had to be then, but I also know now that God in His timing is not something that can be questioned. My son who died 21 years ago yesterday has had a treasure in Heaven since he arrived – his grandpa.  I also know that some day we will all be reunited. But until then, there will always be a hole in my heart and an empty chair at my table. Today and every day. I love you, Dad, and continue to miss you more than words can describe. I wish I could see your face and hear your voice. I wish I could dream about you. Sometimes I think that the reason I don’t is because in my subconscious, I have never fully accepted the fact that he is not here anymore. But there will be pure joy when I do see him again, and we can all be together again in eternity.